


Roses

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Cutting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flowers, M/M, Murder, Revenge, Straight Razors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Irie opens the door to his bedroom, there’s nothing to see but roses." In an infinity of futures, there's one where Byakuran makes the logical decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses

When Irie opens the door to his bedroom, there’s nothing to see but roses.

They’re not even in vases. There’s just a coating of white blossoms over the floor, the bed, the little-used desk, the flowers layered so thickly he can barely see the green leaves and stems for the blinding white. The whole room smells like a garden, the scent of the flowers hanging so thick and heavy in the air it’s like trying to breathe perfume. The weight of the scent is crushing, like it has its own weight even before Irie has made the connection in his memory, before he can remember why his spine is prickling with foreboding. Then he hears the voice over his shoulder, and his recollection slots into place along with the warmth of breath at the back of his neck.

“Do you like them, Sho-chan?”

Byakuran is supposed to be in Italy, half a world away, the most distance Irie can manage to put between them. It’s not a surprise to have him here now, though, or not as much as it ought to be. Irie never let himself think the distance would be enough to keep him safe.

“Byakuran.” His voice trembles in his throat but he can’t even manage an attempt to steady it. His head is starting to swim with the cloying sweet of the roses.

“Look at them,” Byakuran says against his hair. There’s a push at Irie’s back, a pair of delicate fingers brushing against his spine; it’s not enough to force him, not even a push by any reasonable sense of the word. Irie steps forward anyway, moving in automatic response to that force. Flowers crush under his feet, bruise and bleed oil onto the floor. Irie cringes at the damage but keeps walking; Byakuran’s fingers haven’t moved yet, they’re still urging him forward. The pressure doesn’t let up until Irie is in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a sea of white petals; then Byakuran steps back, Irie can hear the door easing shut until it clicks with all the finality of a tolling bell.

“Do you know what roses symbolize, Sho-chan?” Byakuran is coming back. Irie can hear the shuffle of his footfalls as he steps through the flowers.

“White roses?” Irie takes a breath. He’s not good at this -- usually he has to research every time Byakuran sends him a gift -- but roses are easy. “Purity.” He can’t make his voice steady out. “Innocence.”

“Right.” Byakuran is closer now, so close the edge of his uniform is brushing against the back of Irie’s. “They used to mean true love. That’s outdated, now, though.”

Irie takes a breath, feels it catch in his throat. Byakuran is leaning in closer, his fingers trailing along the cuffs of the heavy Millefiore uniform coat.

“You have lovely wrists, Sho-chan.” There’s a scrape of fingernails against the blue veins lining the inside of Irie’s wrist, the flushing heat of physical contact burning like poison as it speeds Irie’s heartrate. He can’t make himself pull away, can’t stand to look down to see Byakuran’s fingers sliding over him. He stares out instead, gazes into the sea of white, the petals turning everything around him pure and smooth and simple.

It doesn’t hurt, right away. Byakuran moves quickly, and the razor edge slides past skin without alerting Irie’s nerves to the damage for a moment. It feels wet, first, his hand going slick with warmth, and it’s not until Irie lifts his hand that he sees the red spilling out over his fingers.

“What --” he starts.

Byakuran’s fingers close on his other wrist. Irie’s thoughts are stalled on shock, too blank for him to realize he should pull away until he feels the drag of pressure over his skin. Then the warmth of touch is gone, his hanging hand is going hot with blood to match the other, and Irie’s thoughts are still skidding on incomprehension, his attention so shattered he doesn’t even try to resist when Byakuran shoves at the back of his knees to drop him down over the flowers on the floor. Irie’s gaze is locked on the heartbeat pulse of blood dripping off his hands; he can see the path it takes, down each shaking finger to fall free before it splashes scarlet against the canvas of the flowers in front of his knees.

“Innocence,” Byakuran repeats back. The motion of his fingers digs up into Irie’s hair, forces his weight forward until he has to throw his bloody hands out to catch his weight. His fingers fall into the flowers, white enveloping the red on his skin, and Byakuran’s dragging his head back, pulling his throat so tight it’s hard to breathe. “But you’re not all that innocent, are you, Sho-chan?”

It sounds affectionate. He’s purring the words, Irie can hear him smiling without seeing his face, and he knows enough to know that affection isn’t enough to keep him safe. But he’s frozen, shocked and cold with the horror of being found out, and Byakuran’s finger is pressing against the side of his neck, right against the flutter of panicked heartbeat.

He feels the cut, this time. Byakuran draws the razor edge across slowly, like he’s savouring the give of Irie’s skin under the pressure, and Irie can feel the moment it catches against his airway, when the instinctive panicked breaths he’s gulping go wet and choking with blood. Byakuran is still talking, drawling over the words so they drag in time with the pull of the blade across Irie’s throat, and even the horrified panic of adrenaline isn’t enough to overcome Irie’s trained need to listen to that voice.

“I knew all along.” Irie is choking, reflexively trying to cough up the blood in his lungs, but Byakuran just keeps talking over the desperate sounds tearing up from his chest. “But you’re getting too close to success, Sho-chan.” His hand at Irie’s throat pulls away, but Irie can’t drop his head, Byakuran’s fist in his hair is still dragging him back at an aching angle. He can hear the splash of liquid on the petals underneath him. “And I can’t let you go any farther.”

Irie can’t stop trying to cough. He knows it’s useless, that he’s never going to manage to choke up the blood he’s inhaled, now, but his reflexes are doing their best to keep him alive even while the caught-animal core of him is going limp in resignation to the end.

“Roses.” Byakuran’s hand drags sideways, tips Irie’s weight over so he falls curled in on his side. He can see his wrist drag over the petals, leaving a trail of red even before his fingers catch in the staining pool of blood from his throat. He can’t lift his hand. His fingers are starting to shake, his skin going chill with what seems like unreasonable speed. “They’re such beautiful flowers.” He pushes Irie over onto his back. The motion floods Irie’s throat, cuts off even the awful gurgling coughs he was managing so all he can do is shake himself cold in the haze of perfume from the flowers crushed under his weight. “I’ve always liked the red ones best.” He’s leaning into Irie’s vision, smiling like there’s nothing out of the ordinary about this moment. There’s fingers pushing into Irie’s hair, brushing it back from his face with a touch hot as fire on his skin.

“Usually red is taken to mean true love,” Byakuran goes on conversationally. He reaches out, lifts a bloodstained rose so Irie can see the color splashed heavy over the white petals. “It can mean mourning, too, in a darker shade.”

The flower drops. Byakuran’s fingers brush against Irie’s jawline; he’s leaning in closer, eclipsing the background, until all Irie can see is the faint purple in his eyes, the sharp edge of his smile.

“I do love you, Sho-chan,” he says. His breath is a reminder of life, a gust of oxygen Irie can’t even attempt to claim as his own. “Truly.” His mouth is warm, fitting in against Irie’s lips without consideration for the blood Irie can taste bitter on his tongue. When he pulls back he closes his fingers on Irie’s glasses, slides them off and drops the other’s vision out-of-focus so Irie feels like he’s floating, or maybe drifting down and sinking into darkness.

“I’ll mourn for you, too.” Pressure, dragging heat across his forehead, and Byakuran’s fingertips are easing Irie’s eyes shut, forcing him into the shadow, holding him down while he drowns. “It’s over now.” His voice sounds tender, soft and gentle and maybe that’s delirium, maybe that’s the lack of air hazing over Irie’s thoughts as the last of his resistance wastes itself in convulsive shudders.

“Rest, Sho-chan,” Byakuran says, and Irie finally gives in, and obeys.


End file.
